<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>i made an excuse (you found another way) by elizabethelizabeth</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23069911">i made an excuse (you found another way)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizabethelizabeth/pseuds/elizabethelizabeth'>elizabethelizabeth</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Aziraphale is "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing" (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Humor, M/M, No beta we fall like Crowley, Post-Canon, Sex in the Bentley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 08:54:14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,459</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23069911</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizabethelizabeth/pseuds/elizabethelizabeth</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Angel, the restaurant’s right there.” It was. Crowley gestured to it with a definitive arm wave. The Ritz was at the corner of Piccadilly and Arlington, and they could see the hotel facade as they stepped out of the park. “We can walk there.”</i>
  <br/>
  <i>“Let’s drive.”</i>
</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>247</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>i made an excuse (you found another way)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>there really haven't been enough immediately-post-canon, A/C-are-insatiable-and-have-to-have-sex-immediately fics /s</p><p>I don't know what to tell you, I had to get this the humor out of my head so I could write serious smut :shrug emoji:</p><p>title from "Excuses" by The Morning Benders</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“No, no. Let’s...let’s <em>drive</em> to the Ritz.”</p><p>“You mean I’ll drive.”</p><p>“Naturally.”</p><p>“Angel, the restaurant’s <em>right there.”</em> It was. Crowley gestured to it with a definitive arm wave. The Ritz was at the corner of Piccadilly and Arlington, and they could see the hotel facade as they stepped out of the park. “We can walk there.”</p><p>“Let’s drive.” Aziraphale was adamant, looking purposefully not at their desired destination. Instead, he faced north, in the general direction of Crowley’s flat in Mayfair. “You haven’t seen the Bentley yet.”</p><p>Crowley hadn’t. “You’re being ridiculous.”</p><p>“Lovely day for a drive, don’t you think?”</p><p>They compromised and began the mile-long trek to Crowley’s flat. Crowley complained the whole way there—moaned about how his boots made walking on the pavement uncomfortable and lamented that he and Aziraphale were going to miss their reservation<sup><a href="#fn1" id="ref1" name="ref1">[1]</a></sup>.</p><p>Aziraphale smiled<sup><a href="#fn2" id="ref2" name="ref2">[2]</a></sup>, held tighter onto Crowley’s arm, and reassured him that the walk wouldn’t take <em>that</em> long. </p><p>Crowley had to admit it was nice seeing his car again. Adam had done a smashing job recreating the Bentley. Not a scratch on her. After opening the passenger door for Aziraphale, Crowley stood on the curb and pet the bonnet, fondly and awkwardly.</p><p>When he finally sat down behind the wheel, he admitted to himself that this was a nice idea. Yesterday, he thought he’d never be able to drive again.</p><p>Crowley looked at Aziraphale. Yesterday, he thought he’d never talk to Aziraphale again. Or see him. Or have lunch with him. Or...</p><p>“A nice idea, wouldn’t you agree?”</p><p>Crowley made a stifled noise in the back of his throat; his tongue didn’t seem to want to cooperate. “Whatever,” he finally managed.</p><p>“Before we go,” Aziraphale reached out, laid a hand on Crowley’s forearm. It twitched involuntarily, to Crowley’s horror, but Aziraphale didn’t pull away. “I should tell you.”</p><p>Crowley looked at Aziraphale, the both of them anxious and expectant for different reasons. When Aziraphale didn’t immediately continue, Crowley leaned forward. “Yes?”</p><p>“Yes...what?”</p><p>“You said you should tell me.”</p><p>“Tell you what?”</p><p>Aziraphale looked dazed, and Crowley realized Aziraphale was looking at him but not meeting his eyes. He was looking somewhere in the vicinity of Crowley’s chin, for some inexplicable reason. Did discorporation muck up Aziraphale’s mental faculties? Bewilderment and realization shouldn’t be emotionally possible at the same time, but that’s the only way Crowley could think of to describe Aziraphale’s expression.</p><p>Aziraphale blinked, shook his head with a stitled jolt, and met Crowley’s gaze through his sunglasses. “My apologies. I’ve remembered now.” Then he rushed forward, bodily and awkwardly, and kissed Crowley.</p><p>“Fucking <em>Christ</em>.” Crowley wrenched his glasses off and chucked them in the backseat. He reached for Aziraphale, taking his red and warm and incredibly soft cheeks in his hands. “Finally,” he grumbled, fricative against Aziraphale’s lips.</p><p>“Don’t blaspheme,” Aziraphale admonished, apparently not too appalled judging by the speed in which he climbed over the center console and settled in Crowley’s lap. They shouldn’t have fit<sup><a href="#fn3" id="ref3" name="ref3">[3]</a></sup> in the seat together, but Crowley wasn’t going to waste any of his one-track-mind’s capacity on wondering how or why they did. Distraction, thy name is Aziraphale. “You taste like brimstone.” Aziraphale ran his hands through Crowley’s hair, definitely ruining the artfully mussed curls Crowley usually spent a few miracles on to perfect. Crowley didn’t care about that, why would he? Aziraphale’s fingers were digging into his scalp, hinted at pulling at the strands. “Did you know?”</p><p>“Doesn’t sound pleasant at all.” Aziraphale didn’t taste like anything so sulfurous. He didn’t taste like anything Crowley had imagined<sup><a href="#fn4" id="ref4" name="ref4">[4]</a></sup>. He didn’t have the angel’s palate for taste identification. Aziraphale didn’t taste like anything except Aziraphale, which Crowley supposed made the most sense.</p><p>“I can assure you it’s quite arousing.” To prove his point, Aziraphale ground his hips into Crowley’s, making the reaction physically evident as well as vocally.</p><p>Crowley didn’t think, didn’t allow himself the time, because if he did he’d start overthinking and being embarrassed, and that wouldn’t do at all. Aziraphale was hard, as was Crowley, and Crowley would be damned— would be blessed— whatever. Crowley wasn’t going to freak out.</p><p>Definitely not panicking, Crowley waved a hand in the general region of his and Aziraphale’s trousers. The clothing on their respective lower halves heeded Crowley’s intentions, and disappeared<sup><a href="#fn5" id="ref5" name="ref5">[5]</a></sup>.</p><p>Aziraphale gasped as their cocks brushed against each other. One of his hands flew from Crowley’s hair to the driver’s side window of the Bentley, slamming into the glass with a thud Crowley felt in his bones. He could also feel the rush of an angelic miracle as Aziraphale hid the car from any passersby, ensuring his and Crowley’s privacy.</p><p>“Sorry,” the two of them said simultaneously. “Should have asked.”</p><p>“What?” Crowley asked for clarification first.</p><p>“I should have asked before performing a miracle on the Bentley, what on earth are you apologizing for?”</p><p>“Oh, I don’t know.” Crowley took hold of Aziraphale’s hips, dug his fingers into the flesh, and thrust up. “Miracling your clothes into a volcano? Seems like a rude thing to do without asking.”</p><p>“You didn’t.” Aziraphale brought his hand back to Crowley’s hair. They were kissing again, so maybe Aziraphale wasn’t actually cross.</p><p>“I might’ve.”</p><p>“If you actually have destroyed my trousers, you’re paying for lunch.”</p><p>“Deal.” Crowley miracled something slick onto his hand<sup><a href="#fn6" id="ref6" name="ref6">[6]</a></sup> and began stroking Aziraphale’s cock.</p><p>Aziraphale shouted, pulled at Crowley’s hair. “Fuck!” He kissed Crowley again, then bit at his bottom lip, hard enough to make Crowley yelp. “Don’t stop.”</p><p>Like hell— like heaven— fuck, no, Crowley wasn’t going to stop, and he told Aziraphale as such.</p><p>Crowley could barely register the onslaught of physical sensations: Aziraphale’s hands in his hair, his tongue in his mouth, the rhythmic writhing of his hips. There was barely time to appreciate the look and feel of Aziraphale’s cock in his hands, there was so much to focus on. He supposed there would be time later.</p><p>Aziraphale pulled back, eyes closed. As if he could read his mind, Aziraphale said breathlessly. “After this, we’re getting lunch. Then I’m taking you in the Ritz’s coatroom. Then I insist we go to that bakery on Brewer street to get some of those blueberry cheesecake biscuits. And then you’re going to feed them to me at the bookshop and fuck me at the same time.”</p><p>“You’re very bossy, anyone ever tell you that?” Christ, Crowley was going to come from indirect stimulation and Aziraphale being a dominating dessert fiend.”Pull my hair again?”</p><p>“Oh, fuck. Crowley!” Aziraphale opened his eyes, maneuvered Crowley by his hair so they were face to face. “I love you,” and Aziraphale came, shouting and tearing at Crowley’s hair and looked so beautiful doing so.</p><p>Crowley couldn’t help it. He followed Aziraphale’s example. He hoped whatever miracle Aziraphale applied to the Bentley included soundproofing.</p><p>Aziraphale slumped forward, his hands falling to his sides and his head landing on Crowley’s shoulders. “Good <em>lord</em>.”</p><p>Crowley’s hand was trapped between their bodies, but there was no earthly possibility of Crowley moving Aziraphale to extricate it. He’d survived six thousand years of wanting this, he could survive some pins and needles. Crowley wrapped his other arms around Aziraphale’s waist, snaking it up Aziraphale’s shirt to rest on his lower back. Kissing Aziraphale’s temple and grinning, he said: “I love you, too.”</p><p>“You didn’t actually miracle my trousers into a volcano, did you?”</p><p>Crowley laughed<sup><a href="#fn7" id="ref7" name="ref7">[7]</a></sup>, and held Aziraphale closer.</p><h3>Footnotes</h3><p><a id="fn1" name="fn1"></a><sup>1.</sup> A reservation that wouldn’t exist until Crowley or Aziraphale manifested it, but Crowley hadn’t had a chance to whinge at all that day, and he so missed whinging. It was one of his favorite demonic characteristics. Putting in a metaphorical resignation notice for Hell wasn’t going to stop him from being a nuisance<a href="#ref1">[return to text]</a></p><p><a id="fn2" name="fn2"></a><sup>2.</sup> He hadn’t stopped smiling since he and Crowley laughed on the park bench, joyous and relieved.<a href="#ref2">[return to text]</a></p><p><a id="fn3" name="fn3"></a><sup>3.</sup> No, they <em>really</em> shouldn’t have, but since when did the Bentley ever follow any laws of human physics?<a href="#ref3">[return to text]</a></p><p><a id="fn4" name="fn4"></a><sup>4.</sup> Crowley had been imaginging what Azirpahale would taste like for longer than he cared to admit. He cycled through different ideas throughout the centuries: ozone, foodstuffs, the way tuberoses smells, the feeling of flying. Those last two didn’t have a taste, but Crowley had an active imagination.<a href="#ref4">[return to text]</a></p><p><a id="fn5" name="fn5"></a><sup>5.</sup> Where to, Crowley didn’t know. He’d find out later, he supposed. He had more pressing matters to attend to in the meantime.<a href="#ref5">[return to text]</a></p><p><a id="fn6" name="fn6"></a><sup>6.</sup> Could have been lube. Could have been olive oil. Could have been bloody mayonnaise. Who gave a fuck?<a href="#ref6">[return to text]</a></p><p><a id="fn7" name="fn7"></a><sup>7.</sup> He laughed because he honestly didn’t know whether he had or not.<a href="#ref7">[return to text]</a></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>and now we know why Crowley's hair was all fucked up at the Ritz!</p><p>(also people apparently can tag when it's their first time writing smut, but I'd like to give off the impression that I absolutely know what I'm doing hahaaaa)</p></blockquote><div class="children module" id="children">
  <b class="heading">Works inspired by this one:</b>
  <ul>
    <li>
        <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26205154">Distraction, Thy Name is Aziraphale</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/MickyRC/pseuds/MickyRC">MickyRC</a>
    </li>
  </ul>
</div></div></div>
</body>
</html>